Mike's heart pounded loudly in his ears as he opened the front door. Micky had sounded so distraught on the phone; he couldn't even begin to imagine what had happened. As he entered, he surveyed the living room. The lights were on, and everything seemed as it should be. Peter was sitting on the couch, head buried in a book.

"Hey Pete." Mike gave a small wave to gain the blonde's attention.

"Hey, aren't you meant to be at your cousin's?"

"Yeah, but...what's happened?"

"What do you mean?" Peter whispered innocently.

"Well, Micky called, he sounded real upset, he said I had to come back, that's why I'm here!"

"He didn't say anything to me, he's been in your bedroom all afternoon, said he was going to sleep."

Mike shook his head nervously and quickly leapt up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He tried to open the door, but it refused to budge."Micky?" He called gently.

Inside he heard shuffling and the creaking of one of the beds. Then there was the light padding of footsteps, but they stopped just before the door. "Mike?" Micky whispered from the other side.

"Yeah babe, it's me."

"How do I know it's you?"

"Look Mick, I'm not here to play games, open the door and you'll see it's me!"

The lock sounded and the door opened a minute amount and two wary eyes stared back at him.

Then the door seemed to swing back on its hinges and Mike was practically strangled by a crushing hug. Micky's body shivered slightly and when Mike pulled him back to look him in the face, he found tears streaming down his lover's face. "Come on." Mike murmured, taking Micky's hand and leading the drummer into the bedroom, before closing the door. Time for explanations.

Peter watched the bedroom door and counted the seconds in his head. Any minute he would be attacked by the Texan temper he knew so well. He also knew that if his plan backfired, he would surely be killed. Everyone knew that Mike was capable of killing someone; it was just a question of when.

The pad seemed silent and Peter could feel his heartbeat quicken. "5.4.3.2.1," He murmured and as he finished, an enormous crash sounded as the bedroom door flung open and Mike stood, fuming. It was a sight that scared Peter more than anything, but he had to keep to the plan. He put on his mock surprised look as Mike flew down the stairs and leapt at him.

The next Peter knew, after a short black out, was the wall being painfully forced into his back and Mike's eyes, eyes of hate, glaring right into his soul.

Peter was about to open his mouth when he was struck for the first time, square on the jaw. Mike seemed to have a good grip on him and refused to let him drop to the floor, instead pulling him up again for another blow.

"You filthy bastard!" Mike growled as he hit Peter twice more.

Once again, Peter tried to speak, but he couldn't get anything out and he panicked, maybe he wouldn't survive this after all. Mike shook him by the shoulders and threw him heavily to the floor, before getting to the floor himself to beat Peter a few more times.

Peter felt his mouth well up with blood and he began to choke. "Wait!" He screamed, hoping it would ease the beating. It didn't.

Mike hit him again and again, snarling with satisfaction. "What do you want to tell me huh?!" He yelled, "You wanna tell me you enjoyed it huh? You sick son of a bitch!"

Peter knew he had to cut through what he had planned, cut his dramatic speech and instead delved into his pocket and produced the empty bottle of pills, throwing them at Mike and sheltering his head.

For a few seconds, the beating stopped as Mike picked up the bottle and examined it. "What's this shit?" He growled as he pulled Peter up by his shirt collar.

"Read the...label," Peter choked.

Mike sat back on his heels and read, and Peter watched as the Texan's color dropped. "Are you going to explain?" He asked, but the cruelty was dropping from his voice and was quickly being replaced with doubt.

"Their Micky's," Peter coughed, "I found them in the MonkeeMobile...see, it has his name on it."Peter pointed feebly and Mike nodded.

"Do you know what they're for?"

"I've seen them before, a friend of mine used to take them back in the Village...he was a schizophrenic, Michael."

Mike looked pale now as he studied the bottle. He then looked back at Peter's face, watching a few tears roll down swollen cheeks.

After a few moments, Peter felt that now was the time for his postponed, dramatic speech. "Why did you hit me Mike?" He whimpered, and gazed carefully into Mike's eyes as the Texan suddenly looked very guilty.

"I...I thought...I mean, Micky told me that you." Mike pointed aimlessly and then hung his head in defeat. "I couldn't believe it when he told me...he told me that you...that you raped him."

Peter's eyes went wide with surprise and shock, just like he planned, and Mike cowered beneath that innocent stare. "Why would he say something like that about me?" Peter murmured.

"Well, if these really are his." Mike brandished the bottle, "Then, it was probably due to his mental condition. I don't know."

Mike looked back at Peter and felt his heart well up with guilt. "I'm so sorry Pete, I'm really, really sorry."

"It wasn't your fault Michael, how could you know about Micky's...condition, all we have to do right now is sort it all out, now we know the truth. I was going to tell you about the pills when you got back, so that you didn't worry when you were away. Looks like that was a big mistake huh?"

Mike nodded woefully, before gradually rising to his feet, and helping Peter up. "I'll...I'll go and see him." Mike didn't dare to look Peter in the eye anymore. Slowly he sighed in his resigning manner and climbed the stairs once again, pain, a hard gnawing pain was tearing at his insides.

Micky looked up expectantly from his bed as Mike sauntered in.

"Well?" He asked quietly, "Has he gone?"

"I think we need to have a little chat."

Micky looked at him closely, worry darting across his eyes.

Mike sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and sat beside Micky, taking up his hand. "Why didn't you tell me you had problems Mick? We could have worked them out."

Micky's lips parted slightly, he couldn't believe what he was hearing, and he began to shake his head. "I don't know what you're talking about. What has Peter said?"

"He didn't need to say anything." And with that, Mike produced the empty pill container.

Micky snatched it quickly and read the label. There was his name, and the dosage. "No." He murmured, "These aren't mine, what are they? Where did you get them?"

"Peter found them. Why didn't you trust me?"

"What? Trust you with what? These aren't mine!"

"Micky. It has your name clearly on there."

"And you believe him over me?"

"No... but...you can't really believe that Peter would do that to you, can you? I mean, this is Peter we're talking about."

"I don't believe I'm hearing this! Mike, he raped me, he hurt me, and you're meant to believe me! Me, not him!" Micky felt tears roll down as his face, he so wanted Mike to stand up for him, protect him.

"Micky, this is all part of your condition, but we'll work it all out I promise." Mike pulled Micky into a tight hug and stroked his hair, rocking him gently.

"You've got to believe me!" Micky kept murmuring over and over again, before breaking free.

Mike just shook his head, "I'm sorry Mick, but you should have told me about all this earlier, now I've hurt Peter, and he's innocent in all this and you know it. Please Mick, help me out here."

"Mike, I don't know what to say. You think I'm mad! Peter's planned all this, can't you see? Can't you see how much I'm hurting?"

But Mike's head was spinning too much. "We can work this all out," was all he could say, but Micky wasn't listening anymore.

Davy came in from his date with Sheila, and was surprised to see Mike sitting out on the veranda, head in hands. The Englishman immediately knew something was wrong but as he began to walk towards Mike's hunched form, he heard something that distracted him.

It was a quiet muffled noise, floating down from upstairs. Davy pursed his lips, deciding that Mike could wait, and made his way up the stairs. As he entered, he realized what the sound was. It was someone crying. Davy's eyes avidly searched around and found a small mound, shivering under a few blankets on one of the beds. "Micky?" He asked lightly, and the noise stopped for a minute.

Davy stepped towards the huddled form and outstretched his hand, quickly pulling the blankets back. Micky's red-rimmed eyes gazed back him, his mouth parted as if on the verge of an explanation but not being able to find one.

"What's happened?" Davy gasped quickly, "Have you and Mike had an argument? Has he hurt you?"

Micky just shook his head solemnly and took a deep breath, preparing himself for what he knew as the truth, whether or not Mike believed him.

Davy staggered downstairs. Strangely, his legs seemed to feel very weak. He didn't know whether he was upset, or angry, or confused, or even guilty. He felt bewilderingly numb.

Mike was still perched out on the veranda and Davy knew that all the Texan needed now was someone to talk to, someone neutral, and Davy knew that someone was himself.

"Hey," Davy gave a small smile as he perched next to Mike on the hard wooden floor.

Mike looked straight ahead for a while, and didn't speak, he didn't want Davy to know how much he was hurting. He so badly wanted to believe Micky, so wanted to make everything better again, but the whole affair seemed so strange. Mike thought he knew Peter too well, and this certainly wasn't something he'd imagine the blond to do. And what about the pills? They certified Mick as a mental case, how could he ignore that? He realized that Davy was still sitting next to him, and he knew that sooner or later he would have to talk, so why not get it all over with?

Peter watched through his usual crack in the door. He had forgotten about Davy, what if he worked everything out? No, he wouldn't be able to do that. He was sore and stiff, Mike had certainly laid into him, but thankfully he hadn't had enough time to do some serious damage.

The bassist watched the two of them talk out on the veranda. They seemed to talk for hours and hours, until finally Mike rose wearily and sauntered in. As he entered, Micky seemed to magically appear at the bottom of the stairs and they gave each other a long look.

"I'm sorry Mick," Mike sighed, "But I'm going back to my cousins for a few days. He's still sick. And this time, I don't want you calling me up with your stories." And with that, Mike collected his coat, and was gone.